


Five Middle Fingers & A Manager In A Pear Tree

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: 12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [4]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: 12 Days of Dethmas, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyklok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28117296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Charles has perfected his Dethklok management techniques: it's all about compromises.And equal distribution of kisses.
Relationships: Polyklok - Relationship
Series: 12 Days of Dethmas 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055183
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Five Middle Fingers & A Manager In A Pear Tree

**Author's Note:**

> **Dec 16 - Taking photos for the holiday cards!**
> 
> I have only just begun to explore my Polyklok feelings

They’d ganged up on him. They always did, of course, but this time there was a lot less “do it or we’ll grumble and call you a robot and maybe talk about pummeling you with absolutely no follow-through” and surprisingly more “pleeeeeeeease Charles?” It was hard to say no to all five of his boyfriends at once while trapped in the center of a group hug getting puppy dog eyes from all directions. 

And anyway, it was Christmas. 

“Fine,” Charles sighed. “I’ll pose in the holiday card photo with you this year.” 

A near deafening cheer went up all around, and Toki leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

“And you’ll get really sloppy with us before the picture, right?” Nathan asked excitedly by his ear. 

“No. Sorry, Nathan, I will, ah, not be doing that. I’ll still have work to do that afternoon.”

This produced a quieter chorus of boos, but he could tell they weren’t particularly surprised or annoyed from the lack of actual complaints. One of the benefits of entering into this relationship, it had turned out, was that these gruff, brutal men didn’t whine about being told no quite as much as long as they knew that, at the end of the day, they would still get his attention. It was sweet, actually, but Charles would never risk telling any of them so. 

Skwisgaar rested his chin on Charles’ hair from behind with a sigh. “I guess that ams all the Christmas vacations we can gets out of Mr. Works All The Times Guy.”

“Workaholic,” Murderface corrected. “The word you’re looking for isch workaholic.”

Charles repressed a smile. “Yes, William, thank you.” Murderface beamed proudly at the morsel of praise. 

“I know what words I am wants to using,” Skwisgaar mumbled, but Charles leaned back slightly against him and he declined to press the issue. 

“One little hit before the picture?” Pickles wheedled.

“. . . Fine, one hit. But nothing over twenty percent THC and don’t mix anything else in.”

Pickles’ eyes lit up. Charles almost _never_ agreed to get any amount of high. “You got yerself a deal there, chief!”

“Okay,” Nathan announced, “now we all gotta go and let Charles get his stupid work done in time for tomorrow. One goodbye kiss each. Except for Toki, he already did his.”

“Hey!” the rhythm guitarist protested. “That’s no fairs, that was just a cheek kiss but now you guys wills alls do the tongue kiss!!”

Pickles nudged him. “Dood, how ‘bout we each get one cheek kiss and one tongue kiss?” 

“Good idea, Pickles,” Charles said, and saw the drummer light up even more at the compliment. Almost immediately, four kisses from four different directions landed on his cheeks almost in unison. 

At the beginning of this . . . understanding between the six of them, things like this had made him flush bright red every time. The mortifying ordeal of being known, he supposed—of suddenly being aware that the people around him cared for and wanted him. Now that he’d had some time to get used to it, there was a warm glow in his chest whenever he thought about how surprisingly in sync they’d all become, even when they were trying to talk him into ridiculous things. 

Murderface lingered the longest; as the others pulled away, he angled Charles towards him and went for it. He was definitely getting better at kissing. The thing he was doing with his tongue, for example, Charles knew he had learned from Skwisgaar and it was . . . very effective. When he pulled away, Charles’ first impulse was to try and follow him, which earned a gratified chuckle. 

Next, Toki leaned in, and he liked to nip playfully. Charles met him on the same terms, enjoying the back and forth of it, and then Pickles joined them for a brief threeway kiss before Toki was done and Pickles was pulling him down like a whirlpool, arms thrown lazily around his neck. He tested warm and smokey, like an aged whiskey

Charles was expecting Nathan next, if they were going in clockwise order . . . but Skwisgaar tapped him on the far shoulder and suddenly Pickles was spinning him to hand him off to the lead guitarist. Skwisgaar dug his long, agile fingers into Charles’ neatly combed back hair, and kissed him so thoroughly that by the time Charles was released his glasses were askew. 

Not to be outdone by his bandmates, Nathan spun him around again with an impatient growl and dipped him like they were in a goddamned ballroom, albeit not actually dancing. Although his grip seemed secure, Charles automatically grabbed fistfuls of the front man’s t-shirt to keep his balance, and when Nathan pulled him back up his fists were pressed hard between their chests. Charles was, at that point, slightly weak in the knees from all the attention, and glad to have thought ahead to find handholds so he wouldn’t embarrass himself. 

“Mm,” Nathan grunted, licking his lips. “Okay, band hug’s over. We’ll see you later tonight, right?”

“I’ll do my best to clear the schedule,” Charles managed to say in a level voice. He unclenched his fingers and began to smooth the black cloth down where he’d pulled at it. “But I get the impression that you boys wanted me to, ah, prioritize that photo shoot.”

“Oh well, yeah, that. Obviously.”

“Ja, obsvkiouslies”

“Is a very important picture times!”

“Yeah, we gotta schpread all the holiday cheer to our regular jackoff fansch becausche their livesch are scho bleak and empty without us!”

“Yeeah, and there wouldn’t be no Dethklok cheer without you, dood!”

Charles felt a smile creeping across his face. It was an unfamiliar sensation after too many years of being over-serious and married to his work, but he was starting to find that he liked it. “Okay, so I’ll, ah, try for tonight. Which room will you be sleeping in?”

“Probably nots ours,” Toki said, indicating himself and Skwisgaar since their bedrooms were in the same wing of the Haus. “It’s always colder there, gives Pickle the shivers this times of years.”

“My bed frame is schtill broken from lascht week,” Murderface admitted. Charles made a mental note to speak to a Klokateer about having that fixed for him ASAP. 

Pickles shrugged. “Nathan’s bed’s the biggest, that’s got my vote.”

“Cool, we can listen to _my_ choice of music while we’re going to sleep,” Nathan said with a grin, as brightly as his deep, gravely voice was capable of. 

They wandered off, already taken up in casual argument about other metal bands and the relative merits of listening to them—but as they went, each took the time to touch or bump or brush past Charles on their way. Just a little physical reminder that while they might be going elsewhere for now, he was still part of the group. The door to his office closed, and Charles circled back around his desk to sit and get back to work with a new lightness to his step. If he buckled down, he saw no reason he couldn’t be done for the night and able to join them by midnight at the latest. . . .

Twenty-four hours later, Charles looked over the holiday card proofs with a wry smile. On the count of _one, two, three, say ‘metal!’_ the guys had all reached suddenly behind him to grab his ass with one hand and flip the camera off with the other. Seems there had been a secret theme that they’d forgotten to fill him in about. 

But they all looked so genuinely delighted in the resulting pictures—a series in which Charles himself reddened steadily while the band practically collapsed from the hilarity of it. They were good shots. He would just . . . have someone in the graphic design department photoshop a more composed image of himself into the center of it all. 

Yeah. 

And he would keep the originals for his private collection, obviously.


End file.
